Not quite
by honeynoir
Summary: 'The room smells like terrible coffee and blueberry tea and whatever they washed her arm with.' River meets TenII.
1. Not quite

**A/N**: For a ficathon the watch_them_run comm at LJ held, and the prompt: "He reminds her of someone, but not exactly..." River finds herself in the parallel universe (for any reason you like) and meets TenII.

* * *

><p><em>'They won't be tracking technology this advanced,' the Doctor had said, sonicing the vortex manipulator one last time.<em>

_Bless him, he was so wrong._

* * *

><p>As far as River is concerned, Torchwood headquarters has a dozen winding corridors, some very bright lights, terrible coffee, and a tiny room with a tiny table. The room smells like terrible coffee and blueberry tea and whatever they washed her arm with.<p>

She's waiting to be 'properly' questioned: they suspect time travel, which apparently is enough to warrant 'Rose stopping by'.

When it had been realised Rose was further away than the corner shop, they'd dug up someone to sit with River while they waited. John, they called him. John, to go with Rose and Pete and Kate and Tom. (River had grinned and called herself Melody.)

John had wandered into the tiny room a few hours after they'd rung him, a Pringles tube in one hand and a teacup in the other, and he'd looked at her as if he knew everything about her. For a second or two, River hadn't been able to draw breath, and then she'd remembered – Time Lords didn't have alternate selves.

He's hardly looked at her since.

Her mind was playing tricks on her; those of her senses that were human plus were running alternately hot and cold, confused by this universe. He reminds her of someone; that happens.

He's had the Cybertech she'd been caught with brought into the room. It's been hurriedly stuffed into a carrier bag from Henrik's, and that's sitting on the table next to his pristine white cup. He hasn't looked at any of the tech, either.

River hasn't particularly planned on letting him. The hallucinogens tingle on her lips and all she has to do is decide whether to kiss him or punch him on the chin.

He's turned his back to her, has shoved his hands into his pockets. He's wearing a grass green jacket and matching trainers, and his dark trousers are speckled with mud and what's probably ketchup.

He doesn't belong in this room, and yet he's resigned himself to it; it's obvious, and nearly makes her decide on hitting him.

* * *

><p><em>'It's not<em> quite _a walk in the park, jumping sideways,' the Doctor had said, and then he'd had to tear his hand from hers. River had materialised with the vortex manipulator burning on her wrist._

* * *

><p>"All this," she says, "Because I happened upon an old factory."<p>

He turns, faces her; looks at her, if not particularly intensely. "Because you broke into a iCybus/i factory and then shot at Torchwood. They don't like that, for some reason."

"They shot at me first."

His wide eyes are sad, and he quirks his lip in a way that makes her want to apologise. "So… They say you're not quite human."

She brushes some imaginary dust off the bandage covering her forearm. (It's a clumsy bandage. It does nothing for the pain, and it's kept her out of handcuffs.) "What am I, then?"

"I don't know. That's Torchwood tech for you. 'Not quite human'. That doesn't mean anything, does it? Give me fifteen minutes, I'll build the most accurate scanner you've ever seen. They'd let me, you know. I don't think I will."

"They think I'm an alien?"

His eyes darken, but he blinks it away. "No, that's not what they think. They think you're a Cybus experiment. A Cybus-eriment. A–"

"I'm not confiding in you." She can't deny that he reminds her of the Doctor; logically, that should probably worry her. What actually worries her, is that he doesn't remind her of the Doctor ienough/i.

"Why would you?"

She makes her voice light, tightens her ponytail. "Isn't that the point of this?"

"I've seen the vortex manipulator." He cocks his head; the fluorescent lamps pick up a lot of grey in his hair. "Three floors down, second door on the right. A bit charred, but okay. That, and a gun. That's all, by the way? Really? You don't need a bag, or a lunchbox or a notebook or a spotter's guide or… something?"

"I travel lightly."

"How's the arm?"

"Fine."

"I saw the report. You've got old wounds. Looks like you've been fighting a long time." Now he looks at her like he knows nothing about her. His voice is ragged. "Who are you? Could you iplease/i tell me why you came here?"

She shrugs. "I had to."

It's the sort of answer that doesn't say anything at all, but he straightens his spine like it means something. He strokes the right side of his chest, once. "You really are here for the Cybertech, aren't you? Not for me? For us?"

"Should I be?"

"No, I suppose not. Torchwood… they won't understand. They can't smell it – her – everything, but even with this subpar olfactory bulb, I can. And you – you're so young, you're not done yet. And that manipulator… Quality work. How are you feeling?"

"Well enough." She decides it's time to kiss or punch, or maybe both.

He ambles over to the table, grabs the bag without even looking at its contents. "Today, for the first time since, well, that time I staged a bit of a revolution, they let me be alone with someone. Don't hit me in the face, I've only got the one." He offers her the bag.

She relaxes her fingers and accepts it; everything she chose is there; the plastic digs into her fingers. "Let me guess… You're going to shoot me dead?"

He shakes his head, and his jaw is tense. He types a code into the little box next to the door. "Two guards. I've… fixed their weapons."

She doesn't take her eyes off him. "Why should I trust you?"

"Because the Doctor would." He gives her one of the most brilliant smiles she's ever seen. "Now, run!"


	2. A slow path

_She got up on her toes and pressed her lips to a corner of his mouth. He smelled like tea and soap and oil._

* * *

><p>Just when rain and darkness both begin to fall, he finally exits the Torchwood building. She makes sure that the sleeves of her jacket cover the bandage on her left wrist and the manipulator on the right; that her hastily-removed blouse covers the Cybertech in the Henrik's bag. She's been wandering, looking at a London that wasn't alternate enough to be interesting.<p>

He wears an oilskin coat and has an enormous multicoloured umbrella, takes the crowded streets on with long strides.

She follows him for twenty minutes before she gives in and closes the distance. "Why would he?" she asks, restarting the conversation.

John turns his head, but keeps walking; looks bored. "Oh, _he_. Praise _him_, the Time Lord."

"Why would the Doctor trust you?"

"Why would he trust _you_?" He nods to the open space next to him, angles the umbrella.

For the benefit of her arm, she ducks under it, falls into step with him. The mark on his mouth is gone, and while his face is superimposed with blocks of colour, she can make out that his cheeks are flushed and his pupils dilated; she wonders what her kiss made him see.

He sniffs. "They'd put a tracker on the manipulator."

"Obviously."

"And?"

"In the Thames."

For a while, there are only the sounds of traffic and heels and rain against taut fabric.

He says, "I thought you would've left."

"Did you?"

"They've got zeppelins looking for you. Don't draw attention to yourself."

"Says the man with the rainbow umbrella."

He very nearly smiles.

She moves the bag from her right hand to her left. The handles have chafed her fingers raw. "So, what's the verdict?"

"Hm?"

"You've lost your job? Will never get to be alone with anyone ever again? They took your teacup away?"

"Oh, but the lipstick was genius! I was out of commission. Besides, Rose arrived just in time to argue my case. They still suspect me, of course."

"So there's a zeppelin with your name on it?"

"They won't make that mistake again." Then he smiles; properly, if not quite as brilliantly as he had when he'd let her free herself. "How 'bout a cuppa?"

* * *

><p>They head for his flat. It's dumb, and irresponsible, and dangerous; but he'd mentioned the Doctor.<p>

Besides, River figures, she has a vortex manipulator that probably functions, and a gun that definitely does.

She knows all about Gangers, fobwatches, impostors. 'John' could be either of those; he could be neither, and she has some time to waste.

* * *

><p><em>'That's all you need to do,' the Doctor had said, before he'd even started dismantling the manipulator. 'Nothing else, do you hear me?'<em>

_Still: always lying._

* * *

><p>She dreadsdoesn't dread that the name on his door will be 'John Smith'. It isn't; it's 'John McCrimmon'.

He shrugs out of the coat and the green jacket and hang them side by side on the back of the door.

Her jacket; dark, nondescript, and expensive, gets the remaining hook. The rain has cleared the odour of bad coffee from her nose; now someone smells like wet hair and sweat, and she doesn't think it's him.

The flat is an open space, and furnished with what she expects; a table, chairs, a sofa, a large enough bed, a desk, bookcases. The walls and the ceiling are startlingly bright blue.

"Like the colour? I'm trying this shade out. Can't find one I really like." He grimaces. "The landlord hates me, the painters love me."

"It's too blue."

He stares at her, quite openly. "There's no such thing."

To her annoyance, she can't quite tell whether it's the lumpy bandage, the blackened manipulator, or her sleeveless shirt he's looking at.

* * *

><p>He turns the wireless kettle on with a snap of his fingers, and then he turns his back to her, noisily rummaging around in a cupboard.<p>

River shrugs, walks up to the desk, and looks through his things.

There are an admirable amount of dog-eared travel brochures and used long-distance zeppelin tickets (made out to John Taylor, Shaw, Noble, and, yes, Smith); there are veritable piles of obituaries; there are traffic tickets and several bottles of omeprazole; terse printed e-mails from a Tegan; very long hand-written letters signed 'Barbara'.

Above the desk, photos are affixed to the wall; a calculated mess. Roughly half of them feature the same woman (blonde; except for in one picture, where her hair is dark and John's hair is bright red), while the rest depict a little bit of everything; John, other men, other women, all sorts of places, small animals, dying stars, postboxes.

* * *

><p>He hands her a cup of tea with one hand, and motions to the enormous lid-less tin sitting in the middle of the table with the other. "Sit down, have a biscuit. I've made a thousand."<p>

She takes his word for it, and a biscuit. She places the Henrik's bag between her feet.

"You know," he says, fighting a losing battle against the string attached to his teabag, "Some days I like it. Like it a lot. Some days it's really an adventure. Other days it's shopping and going to the bank and shouting at the Universe and cleaning your flat and some days are Sundays. I went to my lab on a Sunday, might have yawned once or twice, and Kate asked me why and I said 'it's a Sunday', and then she _gave me every weekend off for the rest of the year_."

"That's terrible." River unravels some bandage and peers at her wound; it's healing nicely, quickly. It's probably best not to show him exactly how quickly, so she covers it up again. The arm's still pounding; she keeps it in her lap.

"Then, of course, I have to waste four to five hours on sleep, almost every night." He finally gets the teabag into a mug, and sits down across from her. He puts his feet, wet trainers and all, up on the table. "How much do you sleep?"

"Too little. I'm curious – Torchwood won't come looking for me here?"

"Here? Please."

"Why not?"

"They won't."

"And what are the odds Rose is going to come here?"

He scratches his head, frowns. "One to thirty, I'd say. Today means two hours of paperwork, probably more, in addition to the inevitable office-wide bickering – believe me, that can take a while. Besides, she usually rings first."

There's a slightly awkward pause, during which River slips the biscuit into her trouser pocket. "Torchwood might not think I'm an alien, but what about you?

He slurps his tea. "Well, I'd rather you were an alien than a Cyberman, so I'll go with yes."

"Does it bother you?"

He bursts out laughing, chokes a bit. "Bother me? _Bother_ me? It's a bit brilliant, is what it is."

"That's certainly good to hear. I'd have thought it'd be the other way around, since Torchwood supposedly protects the Earth from aliens."

He shrugs. "As long as you're mostly human, that's good enough for me."

She pauses, stirs her tea. The mug is the same colour as the walls; she pretends to take a sip, makes sure her lipstick leaves a mark on the rim. "How do you know that I know the Doctor?"

"Educated guess. Do you want to talk about him?"

"Always. But I won't."

He laughs, wiggles his feet. "Oh, good answer! Bit annoying, as well. That's what we're supposed to do, isn't it? Talk about him."

"If I wanted to do that, I'd have stayed with your friends. You feel free to talk all you want."

"Well, you must be wondering. It's simple, really. He left me here."

"He does that."

"For my own good."

"He'd say that."

"Didn't apologise."

"Maybe he wasn't sorry."

John has more tea, grimaces. "I want eight sugars, but I've had to cut back. I only get two now." He eyes the sugar bowl. "Did he send you?"

"My idea."

"Why the Cybertech?"

"Oh, you know I won't answer that." River offers him a smile, and gets up. "Thanks for the biscuit. It's time for me to leave."

"You didn't have any – I mean, wait! Whatever it is, whatever you need, I'll help you. Anything."

* * *

><p>She tells him where she needs to go.<p>

"I'll drive," he states, eyes bright.

She snatches the keys, winks. "You can read the map."


	3. Just another adventure

His car is a shabby little thing; it smells like chips, and his legs are everywhere.

They've been in it for ten minutes, and she knows the names of every country that car has seen and of everyone who's ever sat in it; she also knows his favourite brand of hair gel, that he has a fondness for jacket potatoes, and that he went to A&E the first time he got a stitch in his side.

"The heater doesn't work," he says, slamming the heel of his hand against the panel a couple of times. "Bit of a fault."

"So… Which Universe did you come from?" she asks, conversationally, waiting for the light to turn. She suppresses a shiver; her jacket was damp to begin with, and the air conditioner definitely works.

He makes a face, readjusts the red bag; she's entrusted it to his lap. "Which Universe did _you_come from?"

"Not this one."

"I know."

"Neither did you."

"Well, that's settled, then." He squirms in his seat. "Should we have a picnic? Stop and get some… wine and cheese and whatever you need for picnics. That would be nice, a nice midnight picnic. In the rain. Picnic?"

She turns to the right, cuts through an enormous puddle. The car has a suspiciously powerful engine. "Yes, I heard you the first time."

"Yeees, and you didn't answer. How do you feel about picnics?"

"They can wait. I have more important things to do."

He's quiet for exactly five seconds. "Been to any picnics lately?"

* * *

><p>The Battersea Power Station is a burnt-out shell. Nothing moves for as far as River can see; not in any direction. Even the rain has stopped.<p>

She pokes at a blackened piece of metal with the toe of her boot. "Twenty-second century, the Daleks invade the Earth and turn this place into a nuclear plant. In my universe, that is."

He frowns, grunts. "Daleks. Cockroaches of the Universe. All Universes."

"Rumour has it the Doctor left his granddaughter behind to sort it."

He shrugs. "I'm sure she was brilliant."

"Was?"

"Time-travel. Have to pick a tense and stick to it, or your brain'll pack it in." He looks over the debris. "What is it you're looking for?"

"I thought you _wanted_ to talk about the Doctor?"

"See, I thought we were talking about a Dalek invasion. I'm assuming the Doctor's alive, which really is good enough for me."

"He is." She cuts off the last word just a little bit too abruptly.

He raises a brow.

"Let's get to work, shall we? I need a first-generation EarPod."

* * *

><p><em>Upgraded Cybermen: terrible and everywhere and everywhen and newly confusing. Poor Universe. Poor Earth. Poor Doctor.<em>

* * *

><p>As she crams a few not-too-damaged EarPods into the bag, she catches him staring. He grins and throws his arms around her; squeezes until her ribs ache.<p>

She squeezes back the best she can with her free arm. He smells like detergent and soap and oil, and something naggingly familiar.

"Do you hear that?" she asks, letting go.

His grin slips away, and his arms fall to his sides. "Remember that hug. Okay? This face, that hug."

River presses a finger to her lips.

A beam of light, dense and bright white, cuts through the darkness. Far, far above, it's attached to a zeppelin.

"Huh," he says, "that was quick."

The beam weaves aimlessly, illuminating the desolation — and then it finds the car.

He takes her arm, and they run. He laughs, and howls, and when the light washes over them — mercifully briefly — he waves to the sky.

She could leave; she could take the bag-full and go, return, but his long fingers have closed on both her wrist and the manipulator, and she can't shake him off.

* * *

><p>She pulls out her gun, aims it between his eyes. He stops, finally and abruptly. The zeppelin is nowhere near them, but even in the darkness, she can see despair and anger in his eyes. She's seen both before; she has to swallow. "Let go."<p>

"Take me with you. I can help."

"I don't need your help, thanks. Let go. Now."

"You wouldn't." He tightens his grip. "I need to know what's going on." There's a demand in his voice, but no psychic nudge to go with it.

"You don't get to decide that."

If only he'd possessed those few missing pieces. His eyes are too young, and his breathing too ragged.

He's going to activate the manipulator; she can see the thought coalesce in his head, almost a full second before his fingers twitch.

She slams her boringly-sensible heel onto his toes and the butt of her gun onto the back of his hand and then she runs.

* * *

><p><em>"I can't stop them," said the Doctor, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He lacked both jacket and shoes.<em>

_River straightened his bowtie; it was definitely not meant to be vertical. "Rule fifty-two."_ 'There's absolutely, positively, unquestionably always a way.'

_The workshop was full of Cyberparts, picked apart till their smallest components; an entire Cyberman, sans organic material._

_The TARDIS dimmed the lights a fraction, and he closed his eyes. They'd dissected themselves into a corner._

_She pulled her knees up, settled her head on his shoulder. Turned the sonic on and off, on and off. "We need a Cyberman that's not so ridiculously upgraded."_

_"Well, that much is obvious." He sighed. Opened his eyes, scowled to the room in general. "We need a specific sort of Cyberman."_

_"When can we get one?"_

_"A parallel Earth."_

* * *

><p>"Twice in twenty-four hours? Too often, even for me." River's handcuffed to a chair; they didn't mind the bandage, this time. The pressure really, really makes the wound itch.<p>

There are the bright lights, and the smell of terrible coffee, and there's Rose.

Rose is, unsurprisingly, the woman in John's pictures. In real life, her clothes are dark and dull and tough, and she looks tired. She's wearing gloves, and she turns the manipulator over and over. "Who're you working for? Are you a time agent?"

There'd been a few more zeppelins than River had counted on; a gun in _her_face; and John, dark-eyed and towering, forbidding violence. He'd pressed his lips to her ear and told her he was so, so, so sorry, and she had decided she could stay a while longer.

It's a different room this time. Slightly bigger, and a lot colder. Any word from anyone is a small, white cloud.

River shifts as much as she can on the hard chair. They've confiscated the red bag, had her down to her underwear, removed her makeup, undone her ponytail, and checked her ears with five different devices. Her top is on backwards, now, and the little tag that carries her cell number scratches at her breastbone. "You are tedious, you know. Torchwood… Always in the way."

Rose tucks a strand of long, bleached hair behind an ear. "You'd better answer." It's a plea, not a threat.

* * *

><p>"She's crossed the Void." Rose has dragged John into a corner, is holding a glossy printout in front of his face.<p>

John scratches his ear. "Oh, everyone's crossed the Void by now. Still a funny word, though. Void. Voiiid."

"Oh, don't start! Where did she come from?"

"I don't know!"

"But…" She grasps his hand. "Why her? 'Cause you keep finding people, but no one ever finds you."

"Who's saying she found me?"

"You are. You always look the same when… Who is she?"

"I don't know. Yet. Did you find the Yeti?"

She digs her nails into his skin, glances at River. "Shut up."

"Did they miss me?"

* * *

><p><em>"It'll be fine," he said. "Perfectly fine. Let's go."<em>

_She let him have as much of a kiss as she had time for._

* * *

><p>Rose leans close, speaks quietly. "I don't care what you're doing here."<p>

River grins. "Oh, I'm free to leave? Thank John for the tea and the ride from me. I'd do it myself, but I have an appointment, and he never shuts up, have you noticed? Would you unlock these cuffs?"

"I don't care because I don't need to." Rose folds her arms and tips her head ever so slightly in John's direction. "You see? That's the Doctor. He's going to stop you."


	4. The last

**A/N**: Unexpected update!

* * *

><p><em>"Oh…" John had said, pushing a biscuit crumb around the table with the back of his spoon, "Torchwood, UNIT, LINDA, man on a roof. Working for is a bit harsh, actually. I'm really just… around."<em>

* * *

><p>"The Doctor?" River forces all emotion from her eyes, from her lips, and then she does it. Can't resist. Makes sure they can all hear. "Doctor who? I thought it was John, something or other."<p>

John clutches the printout, breathes too deeply; compensates by not blinking enough.

The Doctor, the Doctor, the _Doctor_. She'd been right all along, of course. So who's this man – fobwatched, android, Nestene duplicate, impersonator? Ganger-of-a-Ganger-of-a-Ganger (and, yes, that had happened)? Some future incarnation doing a spectacularly good job of pretending to not recognise her… and making himself less Time Lord and less old-eyed in the process? He's probably not a time-travelling robot powered by tiny people, but best put it on the list anyway.

Rose shakes her head, once. "Nah, it's just… the Doctor. That's his name."

Oh, River really should resist, but she has to amuse herself somehow. "It's a stupid name."

Rose's big brown flash, just for a moment, but then she grins. "It's not even a _name_, is it?"

"It's really not. And by the way, I know that's the Doctor." Her smile is one hundred percent friendly. Well, maybe ninety-nine. "I work for UNIT."

One mention of UNIT, and Rose had bit her lip and got Kate, who is the boss of her or all of them.

Kate is tiny and frowny and ginger and in some gorgeous boots. "I'm not calling the Brigade Leader for this. It can wait till we're done with the investigation."

"You don't have to," says Rose, "just give me the number."

"Why bother, when we can just ask our resident genius?" She points to John with a biscuit that looks very much like the ones in the tin on his kitchen table.

It takes John a while to notice he's the centre of attention, or rather, it takes him a while to look up from the printout. "You won't see me calling her. She threw a thermos at me!"

"Does this woman work for UNIT or not? Do you know her?"

John catches River's eye and tugs the line of his mouth a fraction of a millimetre straighter, and River thinks: this is going to get worse before it gets better. "Yes", he says, "she works for UNIT."

Kate taps her foot. "You're certain?"

"We're working together at the moment, in fact. Very secret. Entirely my fault."

"Secret? Involving a plastic bag full of Cybertech?"

"The very same!"

"She drugged you!"

"Ah, that. That's our… thing." He shrugs. "Who doesn't like poisoned lipstick?"

"Your loyalty towards Torchwood –"

"Oh, nonono, no!" The printout goes flying, twisting and turning. (It makes its way above River's head, lands somewhere behind her chair.) "You don't want to go there, K, you really don't!"

"Oi!" cries Rose, jabbing a thumb towards River. "Back to her! She's been on the field? I haven't met her."

"Have you met everyone, then?" asks John, splaying his fingers about five millimetres from the tip of Rose's nose. "Besides, she looks different in a… beret."

"Would you like my CV?" offers River. Her body heat was losing the battle against the cold room; the metal cuffs around her ankles were stinging, and she has to curl and uncurl her toes.

Rose tucks some hair behind her ears. "First, we have to decide what we're going to do with you. Kate's right, you _drugged_ him."

"I did, yeah."

So he's called the Doctor. He's clever, he's annoying, he's not from this Universe. She can't help but wonder why 'John' couldn't have been around when the Doctor – the one she was certain was real – was dying.

Rose puts herself right in front of River; folds her arms so tight the leather of her jacket creaks. "Cybertech, time travel… Please, just, what for? Cos I've seen it, both of those, I mean, together, and it's…"

"Terrifying." River looks her in the eye, because, oh, it goes back to the first day of her training, to Kovarian standing over her cot.

"Yeah. You all right? Aren't you cold?"

"Should you care?"

Rose opens her mouth – just as the door unlocks and a man strolls in.

He nods to Kate and to Rose and to John; holds up a flimsy yellow folder. "Finally got the prisoner's DNA scan. Took forever, something's –"

John takes one huge step and tears the folder from the man's hand.

As he flips it through, River's stomach turns, but she keeps her eyes on Rose, even though Rose has turned away. River had made sure everything about her would appear as human-like as possible at first glance, but if this man had anything to do with the Doctor…

John closes the folder and looks at a smudge of dirt on the wall; doesn't blink. His expression is positively lustful.

River tells herself it's due to a nicely rendered graph.

Through some tickling, Rose manages to snatch the folder; she studies it carefully. "Looks all right, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, just your basic… stuff. She's probably fine, good ol' Mel-Mel-Melody. Still, though, one can never be too careful. I think we should run some more tests. Loads more. Cyber-ific ones. Make sure she hasn't been, you know, compromised."

Kate perks up, rolls her shoulders. "Is that a possibility?"

"I'm afraid it is. Though, nothing major… we just need to run a few tests. Tests, I've said tests already, haven't I?" He saunters past River; behind and around the chair. "Flashing lights, annoying noises…"

River hisses, "I don't have all the time in the world!"

He stoops; when he folds upright again, he's holding the printout. He whispers, "Non-invasive. A plus, that."

She's not comfortable, now he's at her shoulder. It's something subfebrile, something tugging in all the wrong places. It wasn't there when they were alone in his flat, why should it be there now? She doesn't know all about the Doctor, not absolutely everything. She doesn't know this man. Is it Rule One or is this entire alternate world lying? Her head and her heart pound, but she smiles. "I'll take your word for it, Doctor, but _why_?"

"It'll get you out of the cuffs." He winks and wiggles his eyebrows. "And you pointed a gun at me… River."

* * *

><p>TBC, probably.<p> 


	5. Or the first

A/N: As for now, this is the last part.

* * *

><p><em>Another room: a sweltering one, this time. River's only job is to lie back, which gives her some time to think. The Doctor was a field of study she'd never complete, yes, but<em> this _came at a bad time. He – 'John' – said the Doctor had left him… but if he was the Doctor…? Then again, Rule One would apply to him as well._

_The conductive gel on her arm cools slowly, while sweat gathers next to the globs._

_Then there's the manipulator and what they might be doing to it; ruining her calibrations, letting the coordinates slip… If she came (comes) back later than say, three minutes, her Doctor would grow impatient and stupid and run straight into the Cybermen, where he'd get his head chopped off…_

x

So Torchwood runs a series of unimpressive and primitive, and, to be fair, entirely non-invasive tests. Lie detectors (two of them), brain scans, X-rays, IQ tests, emotion tests, bright lights, sniffing dogs... (Whenever John turns his back, several pairs of compassionate eyes threaten her with rather more invasive tests, as if that would get them their results.)

When said tests are finally done, the analyses are a waiting game in two acts – and Torchwood are positively generous with the freedom. Uncuffed, she gains a pair of too-large trousers and a drab cardigan. She feels quite at home in them.

She gets invitations, next – Rose asks her to come to 'the office'; John beckons with a finger and hums a medley of La traviata and Fiddler on the Roof.

River stretches her aching muscles and decides she'll have a better chance with Rose.

x

'The office' is just that; a desk and chairs and a dozen paper cups from a chain River has never come across in any time or any place.

A can of dry shampoo sits on top of a pile of papers; a travel iron sits on the windowsill; a clunky typewriter sits in a corner of the desk. The blinds admit only the suggestion of city lights, and something smells like a strain of violet extinct on her parents' Earth for twenty thousand years. (She wonders what her parents are doing, in this world, in this moment – because of course they're alive.)

She takes a seat, unbidden. The chair is metal and fabric, looks padded but feels like it isn't. "I'm curious as to what you've found out. If you don't mind me asking?"

Rose, on the other side of the desk, in another chair, wraps her hands around a mug with a big smile on it. She gets the same terrible brew as everyone else, by the smell of it. "You're not all human, apparently. You've got damage at the cellular level, and your brain's all weird. Plus, they think you've had a kid."

That was even less than River had expected, if it was true; and it probably was. "They? I thought this was your office?"

"I'm just here." A grin blooms onto Rose's face. "I'm just borrowing it, that's all. You need to tell me, though… Do you know him? The Doctor?"

"No," says River, and the truth tastes stale.

"See, I know him. He recognised you. He needs people, just… the ones he finds are almost always dead. Died fighting the Cybermen."

"Talking about Cybermen and fighting… should we really sit here and talk about a man?"

"You're not from UNIT or a rebel or anything else. You've crossed the Void. Where did you come from?"

River focuses on her scratchy shirt, on the strain under her bandage. "Crossing the Void doesn't mean I know the Doctor."

Rose raises her chin. "Yeah. I have a brother who shouldn't exist."

x

The lights burst on, drenching the room with brightness.

She's in John's workshop, looking at shelf after shelf and table after table of Cybertech: EarPods, bundles of wire, piles of hands, pieces of armour, anything and everything.

He's rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. "No one comes here but me," he says, and there's no mistaking the pride in his voice. The energy in him seems more at home here, less… overwhelming. "Only place they'll leave me alone. Which is, of course, inherently ironic. Smell that oil!"

River approaches the closest table and looks closer at something that's probably a mouthpiece. "Thinking about building that scanner?"

"Mm?"

"So you can find out exactly how I'm not quite human."

"Would I need it?"

"Probably not." She'd seen him roll up the folder and stuff it into an inner pocket; the bulge under his particularly-egregiously-green-in-this-light jacket is right above his heart. "Where's the bag?"

"'Scuse me?"

"The bag. My bag, with the Cyberstuff."

"Oh." He scratches his chin. "Don't know. Haven't seen it."

"Then why did you bring me here?"

"To look at my workshop. Like I said, I said, 'come look at my… workshop'."

"Your workshop."

"Yup! It's where I go when I'm bored or without company or, y'know, scared. And when I can't sleep. Did I mention I can't sleep? I can't sleep. No sleep for me. You can have this!" He snags a knee joint from a shelf and tosses it to her. "Oh, I can shut off the higher functions of this old brain, but this body won't accept that. It's not so bad now… I'm making tea, you see. Special tea adapted to the chemistry of – Never mind."

"I thought you said you had to waste four hours on sleep almost every night?"

"Did I? I meant I lay down for four hours and… lie. Well, sit. I sit with a book and the tea and a cup of milk, maybe. Warm milk. Milkety milkety milk. Something like that. Dash of vanilla syrup." He tugs roughly at his ear. "But enough about me!"

That is, sadly, the best opportunity she'll get. "Why did you call me River?"

"Oh, why is everyone so particular about _names_? And, well… I think we both know the Doctor."

"You think so? Blue box? Changes his face? Runs a lot? Forgets to eat and drink and sleep? Doesn't really have to clean or shop or paint? Likes handcuffs?" She tosses the joint back to him; he catches it clumsily between palm and thigh. "Yeah. I know him."

He fumbles the joint onto a bench, goes a bit pink.

"I need to get back! Are you going to help me or not?"

"I'm sure he'll be fine on his – No, maybe you should get back, come to think of it. Just… tell me why you need the tech." He takes a step toward her, and then another. Reaches out –

She moves away, shakes her head; she'd just be salt in his wounds.

He shoves the hand into a pocket and stares. Those big brown eyes fail at hiding much of anything, unlike the ones she's used to. She knows he'll say it before he does, so sincere and clueless: "Who are you?"

She takes a step and then another, reaches up and touches his face; the hair and the stubble and the skin. She's barely in control. As long as she's the one reaching out, she tells herself, it's okay.

He leans into her touch, swallows. "You're a Time Lord."

"I'm really not."

His eyes are dark; terrible greed and terrible grief and a pinprick of desire. A long while passes, must have passed, and then he clears his throat: "What if I could give you something better than a plastic bag?"

River withdraws her hand, slowly. "I'd take it, of course. What've you got?"

"New universe, okay, what're you gonna do?" He spreads his arms too wide and raises his voice too much, grins at the ceiling. "Full disclosure, first month was mostly about getting used to, well, rapid cellular degradation and a few other things because this isn't 1913 and then someone said I should run for president but that's just not a good idea, and then it took me another few months to realise I can't save everyone –" He takes a breath and lets it out, finally looks at her. "But then, after that, you might find some nice paramilitary organisations and offer them your help because that worked quite well the last time, and then you might, just might, is all I'm saying, study the Cybermen more thoroughly than ever before and you'll be a little bit surprised at first because you thought you were thorough the first nine hundred times. You might do that. In your spare time, when you can't sleep."

"You've invented something, is what you're saying?"

"Oh, you bet I have."

x

A very long while later, when the night air is cool on her naked arms and she's shaky from hunger, Rose presses the manipulator into her right hand and tells her to "_Go_".

John presses something else into her left, grins, and cries: "Tuck your elbows in, you're gonna need 'em!"


End file.
